Coming Home in Winter

A light atop the mountain guides my eye to the ski area.
The thought of people wintering up there
takes me back to an ancient bus
sitting halfway up the slope of Daisen,
where old men sit drinking tea to keep warm
as they wait to put chains on the tires of the city buses
that bring tourists up to the lifts.

Celestial light too,
bathes blue the path through the trees up to my home.
I remember how a woman told me
of bears awakening from their slumber
by the unseasonable warmth.

I begin to whistle as I ascend the steps.

On the turntable: The Byrds, "Untitled"